


Take Me With You / Fifteen Hundred Hours

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Homecoming, M/M, Separation Anxiety, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In their twenty-four months of living together, twenty-one months of acknowledged co-dependency, and eighteen months of Sherlock completely failing to sleep in his own bed, John has never seen him like this. But he kind of hopes to see it more often.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me With You / Fifteen Hundred Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2011.

 

**Take Me With You**

In their twenty-four months of living together, twenty-one months of acknowledged co-dependency, and eighteen months of Sherlock completely failing to sleep in his own bed, John has never seen him like this. But he kind of hopes to see it more often.

Sherlock is wrapped around him from behind, curling their entwined fists together so tightly against John's chest that he's sure the phrase _my heart might burst_ has never been more apt. He'd remind Sherlock to breathe if he could get a word in edgewise.

"Because it's absolute _nonsense_ ," Sherlock is saying, his words only slightly muffled in John's damp hair, which is in desperate need of cutting. "Mycroft has never given a fig about medical aid in the wake of disasters he starts, so why should he bother—"

"Sherlock, he's not responsible for acts of God," John blurts, drawing Sherlock's knuckles up to his lips in a desperate bid to still the ceaseless clenching and unclenching. "And there's the part where I volunteered. You missed that."

Sherlock falls motionless, entirely limp, as if defeated. "You didn't tell me. You're going away, and you didn't _tell me_. An earthquake isn't an act of God; it's a geological strop."

John wants to laugh at that, but he knows he shouldn't.

"True, but he's got political interests at stake, and I kind of do owe him one for saving our lives a dozen times more than we actually deserve. It's only for two months. As preoccupied as you are, I thought you wouldn't mind. You've got five petty cases on, and all I'm doing by way of contribution is making sure you remember to fucking _eat_."

"And that I like fucking you," Sherlock points out hopefully.

John squeezes his eyes shut and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand. Two months without Sherlock trailing in at 4:00 AM and collapsing beside him with an exhausted groan. Sixty-two days without Sherlock breathing hesitant obscenities while John sucks him off by the half-light of dawn as it slips through the curtains. Fifteen hundred hours without Sherlock shagging him breathless for no other reason except—

"Take me with you," he says, almost too softly for John to catch.

"I wish I could," John says, and presses Sherlock's palm against his heart.

 

 

**Fifteen Hundred Hours**

As the plane lands, John is rattled awake and welcomed back to London by the captain's irritating Hackney drawl. He must have slept through breakfast, because he can smell the remnants of coffee and croissant and his stomach is protesting loudly. John runs one hand through his hair ( _Far too short_ , Sherlock will tell him with a frown) and unfastens his seatbelt, never mind that the plane hasn't come to a stop.

Once he's disembarked, he collects his suitcase (late to the baggage carousel, as usual) and stops off at the loo before exiting customs. He blinks at himself in the mirror, splashes his face with cold water. He's got two days' worth of stubble, and he's as tanned as when he first returned from Afghanistan, only it's all up and down his arms now, too, even on his chest and neck and back with no interruptions. He wonders if Sherlock will be annoyed at the lack of pale spots to tease him about.

Thanks to MSF rations and loads of running between makeshift hospitals, he's lost half a stone. When he'd texted a photo to Harry, she'd told him he looked five years older. She'd also told him his freaky genius boyfriend was making an utter nuisance of himself asking for updates on AIM, wasn't he _calling_ the poor thing often enough?

He'd been calling Sherlock as often as he could manage: twice a week, which had been far more often than he ought to have. In fifteen hundred hours, John has helped set a hundred and twenty-seven broken limbs. In sixty-two days, John has watched seventy-four children and thirty-nine adults die of injuries and of disease.

In two months, Sherlock has solved fourteen cases and set fire to the bin twice.

John exits the loo with his eyes trained on the floor, dragging his suitcase behind him. It's 7:48 AM, which means Sherlock has passed out either on the kitchen table or on the sitting-room floor. He considers taking Heathrow Express to Paddington and braving the tube, but in the end, he really can't be arsed. He'll shell out fifty quid for a cab and find some excuse to claim it back from Mycroft. He'll find Sherlock—

( _Not_ passed out in his elegant, rumpled clothes, as it happens. Not even at home.)

Waiting for him in Arrivals, eyes trained straight ahead as John rounds the corner.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be up?" John asks, because his chest is constricting and everything around him is white noise except for the sight of Sherlock's tired smile.

"Isn't it a bit late for you?" he counters, easing the suitcase handle from John's grasp.

"You wouldn't have liked it," John tells him. "It was hot."

"It rained here," replies Sherlock, his lips twisting. "Nonstop."

"There, too," John says. "You would have melted."

It's ludicrous, how long they've bothered with the pretense of conversation and how _good_ it feels to be crushed to Sherlock's chest and have his fingers slide through Sherlock's hair and to learn that they're not very coordinated when it comes to public displays of affection. Sherlock makes a low, broken sound as they kiss.

John covers it with his palm, knows exactly what it is and how to heal it.


End file.
